What we'll be
by ohmygodwritersblock
Summary: (when we grow up). Unilock. John, Sherlock, and Greg share an apartment during Uni. They get drunk a lot and generally annoy each other and get stressed and yell at each other. And John is maybe-bi-but-not-really. What were you expecting? T for sex going on but you can't actually see it (or, like, read it). Hopefully this is funny? But also serious?
1. Chapter 1

** UNILOCK!**

**This has been hanging around my computer for aaaaaaaages.**

**Sherlock, John, and Greg live together in a flat during Uni.**

**Sherlock and John are best friends but the kind of best friends that make frequent sexual jokes that are just on the verge of being serious but if they did do anything they would just be friends. **

**That type of friendship. Got it?**

**GOOD!**

* * *

John stumbles through the door on a Friday night, alone, clothes rumpled, rugged, alcohol scenting his every move, and contemplates the large pile of books in his way. Hands unsure, he fumbles loose papers in an effort to clear his way, palms and fingers stupid without the friendly press of a glass or a bottle. He doesn't think he can sidestep this.

He yells for Sherlock.

"I'm - ah - busy!" comes the reply from the bedroom on the left, Sherlock's room. His voice is darker, rougher than usual.

"Sherlock its important."

"No its not."

"Sherlock-" he stops his protests immediately, as a moan - yes definitely a moan - drifts through the door of the bedroom. "Sherlock are you having sex? Without me?"

John isn't entirely sure why this distinction is important. It just doesn't seem fair that Sherlock is having sex and he isn't.

"Obviously," and then, "Oh, do that again."

John tries to decide whether, if he pushes more, Sherlock will come and get him, or just completely ignore him for the next few days.

He doesn't come up with a conclusion, but the pile still presents a problem.

"Sherlock?"

Quietly, "No, keep going, he'll stop. Just let me-" louder, "John what do you want? Keep in mind that I can hide your body very, very easily once you're dead."

John allows him a few seconds to ponder this, and then decides that if Sherlock is that coherent, that the sex is obviously not good enough, "There's stuff. Books. Where I need to walk."

For about a minute, John waits patiently as the amplitude of the moans and whimpers escalates. He revises the part of his thinking that included Sherlock having bad sex. They both sound as if they are having a wonderful time and are feeling great. John is feeling very lonely, and very aroused.

"Ask him if he has a sister," John yells. He's not usually crass, but he has been put through a dry spell recently, bogged down and buffeted by a hurricane of work. And whoever comes home with Sherlock and then continues through a conversation with a flatmate has got to be a kinky fucker, and up for anything, not easily put off by a few crass comments. And probably also has great genes.

Has he mentioned? John is going through a bit of a dry spell.

Apparently neither of them deem it worth their time to answer, and John decides that he will forever be in the dark.

Sherlock walks out a few minutes later, lips slick and redder than John has ever seen them. His eyelids are heavy-lidded and John is so much in need of any kind of pleasure besides that given by his left hand, that Sherlock looks like sex personified.

John has conquered the stack of books and papers by declaring them his makeshift throne, and he carefully maneuvers himself to completely face Sherlock, the structure wobbling slightly unnervingly.

Sherlock's partner for the night walks out just a few seconds later, fiddling with the lopsided button - hole arrangement that is his shirt.

He's hot.

Sherlock is pretty.

John has very recently discovered - the revelation of a mere few seconds ago - that he may or may not be a little versatile with his sexual orientation when he's hammered and in desperate need of a shag.

"You had sex without me," he levels accusingly, the point seeming even more sore now that he's seen what Sherlock gets.

The guy has smooth, dark skin, and a bright grin that tugs at the plush curve of his lips.

A bright tongue darts out to chase the round of the bottom one.

Jesus Christ.

Then the lips part and the mouth forms words. American words. Dark, heavy, round words that land in the air and simmer there, "I don't have a sister. But I am very much up for another round," he proclaims as he looks John up and down.

That-

That is very tempting.

But no, "I'm not sure Sherlock would like that very much."

Sherlock, as if awakened by the mention of his name, darts to life and steps over to assist John in his plight. His voice is made breathy from the slight strain of supporting almost the full weight of John as he helps him from his seat, "John is being very, very polite. Even in his drunk state, but he doesn't..." he pauses to shift John more fully against him,

"Bat for our team."

John lets himself be half carried over towards his bedroom, but untangles himself from the wrap of Sherlock's limbs to slump slightly against the delightful stranger. "Don't listen to him," he advises, "He thinks he knows all of it," what 'all of it' directly refers to, none of them are sure, but John's wide gesture into the unknown seems an attempt to cover it.

"John-" starts Sherlock.

John cuts him off, "I would love to bugger you," he runs a heavy hand over the roll of the guy's biceps thoughtfully, "Or maybe, be buggered by you. But I'm not completely, really, completely sure if I would like that."

He peers at the face in front of him blearily, searching for understanding. What meets him, as he glances down slightly, close proximity loading it with more tension than usual, is playful amusement pronouncing itself across those lips. "You have brilliant lips," John compliments.

"Thank you," the lips reply. "You're adorable."

John is slightly throw by that, and he glances up to find the guy that he is draping himself suggestively over, sharing a look with Sherlock Holmes.

An 'isn't he adorable' look.

Which John is not in agreement with.

He twists his neck, catching a cheek against the light stubble of the other man's and that is an odd feeling. He's not sure he likes it. The texture clings to the curve of his jaw as he catches Sherlock's gaze. Its doing the thing.

"Don't do the thing," he says.

Sherlock keeps doing the thing.

"Stop looking at me like I'm interesting," he repeats the sentiment accusingly.

Sherlock makes a noise that is neither an agreement nor a negative and steps towards John, who feels strong arms tighten around him soundly.

The arms, attached to the mouth, that wonderful, wonderful mouth that John wants to put his mouth against. The mouth is saying something. It sounds an awful lot like, "Obviously he's not up for anything in this state. But next time. Give him my number."

He glances down at John again, dark eyes meeting bright, "You're fit. Very, very fit. And utterly adorable."

John thinks that maybe he doesn't mind being adorable if he gets a shag out of it.

"I'm Josh, by the way," says Josh.

Josh. John likes Josh.

John wants to kiss Josh, very badly.

Sherlock spoils everything, placing long hands on John's hips, tugging him lightly away from the warm arms wrapped around him. John scowls over his shoulder. Because John is not moving away from this fuckable stranger even for Sherlock and his newly obvious after-a-shag sexiness."He's not interested," remarks Sherlock calmly.

To hell with Sherlock.

"What if I am?" he challenges.

"You're not. You're drunk," Sherlock shoots back, as if those two impact each other at all.

"Well, I'll call him later."

Sherlock holds his gaze for a few beats, and John is struck with the intensity of it harshly, unsteady after the amount he's had to drink. He looks away.

Sherlock stands a few moments, hands still a heavy heat on John's hips, and then steps away. "Fine."

The door to his bedroom shuts harsh and abrupt and John doesn't really know what's going on.

When he looks back to Josh, he's shifting uncomfortably, smooth assuredness gone in the wake of Sherlock's abrasive personality. Wonderful.

"Look, I don't wanna get in-between you two and... whatever you're doing."

Oh. John blinks at Josh slowly. "He's my best friend."

Josh's eyebrows raise, confused and slightly disbelieving, "Well you have one odd relationship dynamic."

He excuses himself and leaves John drunk and alone and without a phone number.

* * *

**I really, really hate exclamation points and I apologize for my overuse of them in my author's notes earlier.**

**I love Josh. He's a cool guy. Also I have an American accent and am surrounded constantly by people with strong English accents so Josh and I are bonded on a spiritual level.**

**More of this is on the way. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Sooo **

* * *

John wakes up slowly the next day, to the sound of Sherlock rattling pans around the kitchen. Sherlock only cooks on mornings when either Greg or John has a hangover and he's annoyed with them. Vindictive little shit.

Deep breath.

"Shut up!" John shouts, and then winces at the force of it ripping from his rough throat and the way it echoes and slams against the insides of his skull.

Sherlock retaliates by belting out a jingle about pop tarts and slamming a metal object against another metal object rather violently.

Multiple times.

John rolls from between the covers slowly, morning nibbling at the underside of his neck and brushing cool fingers over the heat of his t-shirt.

He shuffles into the kitchen, socks making the floor slide by, and rubs a hand through the spikes of his hair. Bleary eyed, he nudges the countertop beside Sherlock with his hip and leans to watch Sherlock's face.

"Good morning, you tit."

"Morning," replies Sherlock busily, nudging bacon with the edge of the spatula.

John fights out words, pushing them between the force of his yawn, and leans his back more solidly against the counter,"Did Greg make it back last night?"

"No."

There is a soft silence for a few moments and then John sighs, "I'm sorry about your guy last night. Jacob? No. Josh."

Sherlock snorts, "Not a problem."

John turns slightly to find him grinning. He swats at Sherlock's shoulder, "Shut up."

Sherlock nods behind him at an unfamiliar mobile on the table, "He left his phone. A very convenient pick up line is there somewhere."

"Oh piss off," John moans, wincing at the clash of dirty plates as he rummages around in the sink for some that he can easily wipe down. Minimal risk of fatal diseases. "And stop pickpocketing people for no reason."

"There was a very valid reason," Sherlock protests, "He will now come back for his phone, and you will give it to him. Minimal effort on your part, and you can finally get rid of your bad mood over the lack of time you've had to pleasure yourself."

John scrubs tiredly at his cheeks, fingertips against the rough of his stubble. He needs a shave. "Thanks. Wow. That's really- that's brilliant. You're a fantastic wingman."

"Sarcasm," Sherlock deflects, unfazed,"Why? You assured me that you were very interested last night."

"Interested-" John adopts his 'explaining social boundaries, queues, and situations' voice. "Sherlock, I was drunk. And horny. I would've been interested in anyone."

Sherlock seems to ponder this, "Anyone?" he's genuinely interested, like he is absorbing new information about John.

"Not just anyone," John turns, flattening his hands over the sheen of the countertop, "But... probably most people," he allows, "I don't know. Its not something I think about too often."

"Clearly."

The bacon flops across the two plates and bacon grease is drizzled generously across it.

John smiles appreciatively.

Sherlock breezes around the table in the middle of the kitchen, one leg replaced by hot glue, a towel, two forks, and an umbrella - nothing heavy allowed near it - to root around in a drawer for a knife and fork, brushing off some sort of dust, and thrusts a second pair at John, who already has one strip of bacon dangling above his mouth from the pinch of his fingers. John avoids cutlery if he can help it. There's no telling what its been used for, with Sherlock as a flatmate.

Sherlock's upper lip curls slightly, but he doesn't comment.

John continues to ignore him as he devours his bacon, and then half of Sherlock's.

* * *

**I dunno if anyone likes this but here you go. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Greg makes his grand entrance. Not really. But he's here.**

* * *

Greg stumbles through the door at six minutes past one in the afternoon, in the clothes he was wearing yesterday. A phone number is scrawled in dark red permanent marker across his forearm and he rubs at it absentmindedly as he drapes himself over the sofa.

"Food," he sighs weakly.

"In the fridge," yells Sherlock from his room. A crash follows, and much swearing.

"I know the food is in the bloody fridge if you were a decent human being-" mumbles Greg to himself as he rolls the aches of his muscles in a position that mimics a functioning human being, and trudges to the fridge to scan its contents.

It is disappointingly full of nothing. Well, there is beer and some kind of cheese. And a steadily decaying tomato.

Ah yes. Drink away the hangover.

Except, "Don't touch the beers," comes Sherlock's voice, rising over the high whistle of the kettle boiling from behind his door. The kettle that should be in the kitchen.

"Why not?" demands Greg, already placing the can back on the shelf with a resigned sigh.

"Experiment."

Is the only response.

Greg tries not to hate his life too much more.

Instead, he wanders over to Sherlock's room and nudges open the door. Inside, the room is dim, and Sherlock is sitting on his bed, a desk dragged up to it, working on something while the kettle finishes boiling from its spot on the floor in the corner.

"Where's John?" asks Greg.

Sherlock waves his hand vaguely in response.

"Tea," he says. Demands.

Greg feels the hangover thrum in the back of his skull and goes to the kitchen to root around for two clean mugs.

He takes a look at the foreign phone resting on the corner of the table. Considers the passcode. Tries a few combinations.

Red bars the screen every time.

He picks out two tea bags and brings the phone along with him to sit against the wall as he pours tea.

He doesn't ask what Sherlock is working on, but he gets up to set the hot drink next to his elbow, and hangs the phone in front of his face.

Sherlock considers it for a moment and taps in a code, which reveals the phone's background.

"Yours?" inquires Greg, eyebrows raised.

"No."

Greg grabs his tea and takes a seat on Sherlock's bed. He stares at the numbers scrawled across his arm briefly, and then enters them on the keypad of the phone.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

And then, "Hello?"

"Hey, this is Greg, from last night?"

Sherlock's eyes drag up from the concentration of his experiment. He glances back at Greg.

Who takes a sip of his tea and looks incredibly pleased with himself.

* * *

**I'm gonna have to figure out who Greg is calling. Or if it even matters.**

**If you like this smack a review in the little box down there cause it would seriously make my day. Or even if you don't like it like at all. Box is there. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey so it's summer (woooo) and I'm having fun. I also wrote this.**

* * *

_John shoves a pair of mud-clogged rugby boots out from in front of the doorway, and then shoves the key into the lock, shuddering the door handle back and forth and whispers encouragement and curses in a heaping, intelligible mass as he tries to coax it open. It gives under his persistent hands in a jerking rush, and John drops his keys down on the permanent pile of textbooks as he steps over the threshold. _

_There is someone stretched out on the couch, reclining with a kind of calculated laziness. She watches him, unmoving, lips parted as he walks in and stops a couple of feet from the couch. Her nails are painted a wine-red, and her dark heels belong to the kind of person has great sex, but will also grind your face into dirt, if provoked. _

_"Hi," he says, tongue tracing his bottom lip in an unconscious gesture, "you here for Sherlock?"_

_Her full lips curl into a patient smile, "No, not here for Sherlock Holmes." _

_Cheekbones and dark hair and pale skin. Her eyes are dark and steady, and there is no hint of pale freckles on the light blush of her cheeks. _

_"Right," says John. "I'm John."_

_"Anthea."_

_"Well, can I get you anything, Anthea?" He means to start towards the kitchen, but something about her suggests he make no movements without her permission._

_"No, I don't think so, John." Her toes curl into a couch cushion, and her neck lengthens as she settles further into the couch._

_There is a brief silence, broken by Greg coming out of their tiny kitchen gripping two mugs of tea, tendrils of heat scenting the air. _

_"Oh, hey John." He puts them down beside the couch, and Anthea pulls her feet towards her just long enough for Greg to get settled, and then rests her feet in his lap. "John, this is Anthea. Anthea, John." He gestures between them, a hesitant smile on his face that brightens into something proud when he introduces his new friend to John. _

_"Yeah," says John. _

_Greg's hands drop to his lap, and he slowly begins to massage Anthea's feet. _

_"So how did you two meet?" John is still standing there, as Greg moves his thumbs in slow circles just above the arch of Anthea's foot. There hasn't, as far as he can tell, been any clear social queue to leave, but he doesn't really know what to do. Greg waves his forearm in his general direction, the stain of numbers now barely visible. _

_So this was the girl that Greg had met at that party. The girl who he originally thought was one of those sullenly insanely hot girls, but turned out to be just insanely hot. And maybe a little dangerous. _

_"Well, you too have fun," says John, escaping to the kitchen to make his own tea. _

_He stays in there for as long as he thinks he can get away with, tugging down a pack of biscuits that looks promising, but only has one partially disintegrated chocolate something or other. _

_He puts it back for someone else to be disappointed by._

_Having run out of inspiration for evasion tactics, he leaves the kitchen as quickly as possible, not wanting to intrude, and accidentally ending up being a viewer to an odd event and the knowledge that either Greg or Anthea has a foot fetish. Most likely both._

_He makes it inside his room with a strong slam of the door._

_Sherlock does not look up from his cross legged position on John's floor, as he drips some kind of viscous fluid from a pipette into a beaker. It fizzes in a way that makes John distinctly uncomfortable and vaguely afraid for his safety._

_"Is that-?"_

_"Not lethal,' says Sherlock, writing something down in a rough scrawl in the notebook lying open next to him. _

_"Your handwriting is terrible," says John, settling, back against the foot of his bed, legs settling out, almost touching Sherlock's knees._

_"No one needs to read it but me," says Sherlock, tugging a hand absently through his curls. "I have other handwriting for written assignments." His mouth creases sour at the corners with the mention of school work. _

_John pauses, wondering if he should ask. If he wants to ask. He glances at the closed door, and back to Sherlock, who is now looking at him out of the corner of his eye._

_He takes a short breath, "Does Anthea have a- um-"_

_"Foot fetish?" Sherlock watches him steadily, hand suspended in the air, cradling the pipette._

_John just looks at him._

_"Obviously," Sherlock says._

_"Oh, right," says John as Sherlock goes back to whatever he's doing._

_"And Greg, does he...?"_

_"Less so." He shakes a match out onto his palm and lights it. John keeps a careful eye on the flame._

_"Uh huh," intones John carefully. _

_Voices pitched quiet, force themselves through the door of John's room. There is some stumbling as the couple outside coordinate themselves and try and make their way into Greg's room. _

_Sherlock is staring at a section of the wall, head tilted, an odd look on his face. _

_Greg is slammed into the small space of drywall between John and Sherlock's room and, apparently, kissed within an inch of his life. _

_"This is ridiculous," says John quietly, the beginnings of a laugh tracing the corners of his lips. _

_A low moan worms its way through the space between door shut tight, and the doorframe. John sniggers._

_Sherlock's mouth turns down in a barely concealed smirk._

_John laughs, Sherlock watching him, delighted at the ridiculousness of the situation, until Greg slams an open palm on their door in an unvoiced demand for them to shut the fuck up._

_"Get a room," yells John._

_A strangled kind of yelp leaves Greg's vocal chords and Sherlock finally gives in, giggling with John on the floor of his room, bodies collapsing under the weight of their laughter until they are sprawled out on the floor together, grinning at the celling._

* * *

**_At the moment I'm working on a magical realism tatoo fic, and also beta-ing for the wonderful slashscribe, on her fic The Cost of a Wish over on ao3. For those of you who two-time._**

**_Its good, you should go check it out. _**

**_Also, if you wanna see a particular scene or anything for this unilock, feel free to just bang it in the review box down there, just under these letters, and I'll see if I can put it in. Thanks for stopping by guys. _**


	5. Chapter 5

**Its been ages, but I've mostly moved over to ao3 now (I'm still gonna stick around here for this fic and Elysium, when I get around to it), so I've got a couple chapters written already. I think they're gonna get posted quite quickly on either a weekly schedule or all within one week. Who knows. By the way, the last chapter wasn't meant to be in italics, it wasn't like a flashback or anything, it was just like that because thats how I was writing the fic at the time. All in italics. For some reason.**

* * *

"Morning," says John to the slowly approaching door. A hand comes up, gripping something blue, from behind the door. The dark red sleeve of a robe draped against a wrist identifies it as belonging to Sherlock.

He jerks suddenly as he is hit with a sharp splash of water. His face screws up defensively, shoulders moving in on themselves, hands coming up to sacrifice themselves as a shield against the assault.

The form that, from what John can tell, must be Sherlock, though he couldn't be completely sure as he still hasn't opened his eyes, sweeps around the door to the bathroom, and past him down the hallway.

"Wha-"

As he turns around, mouth still sleep-lax, eyes still managing to carry the weight of sleep with them against the cold reality of a water-dousing, another jet of water scatters across his mouth. John splutters, bathroom door still hanging open as he smears his lips on the back of his hand.

"Is that a water pistol?" he says, eyebrows screwing tight on his forehead, eyes squinting in suspicious disbelief.

A grunt can be heard as Sherlock disappears around the end of the hallway to, no doubt, slather himself over the forgiving leather of the couch.

John wipes a hand down his face one more time, and sighs, forcing his eyes open fully, determined to be fully awake if he has to be awake at all. The bathroom light, though having made its presence known by the path it sheds on the floor, is still shatteringly unwelcome as John hangs his towel up beside the shower. While John's body has been trained to recognise a Monday morning, and the usual early wake up it brings, John's mind is able to remember the fact that there are, in fact, no classes today.

Wonderful.

There is some sort of fete that he is supposed to be attending today. Greg might know, or possibly, um

John's hand pauses on the lock of the bathroom door. Anthea? Anthea.

It shuts with a decisive click. Not that it will keep Sherlock out if he really wants to come in, but then again, there really isn't anything that John can afford, or has access to in this world that could keep Sherlock out.

John doesn't think about that, and has his shower.

Towel hung lazily on his hips, laundry-to-be-done-or-later-retrieved shoved into the basket beside the door, and John Watson exits the bathroom. He pads barefoot, keeping a general eye out for anything that could be a toxic chemical or shattered glass on the floor, down the narrow hallway in the semi-darkness. The flat, for once, is pleasantly warm. It is late June, but, also six in the morning, and Sherlock has the annoying propensity of leaving windows flung wide open, or of procuring fans from god knows where for various experiments, to blow cool air that fills a room, right down to permeating cushions and bed sheets regardless of bodily warmth.

So John allows himself to ignore his door, and wanders past Sherlock, who is indeed lazing on the couch, and walks into the kitchen.

"Tea?" he asks, as he passes. More out of habit than anything else.

John is ignored. However, when he places a mug on the small table in front of the couch that Sherlock has claimed as his own, Sherlock swings his legs to the floor with a thud.

"John," says Sherlock. He looks, for some reason, expectant.

"What," says John, eyebrows twitching upwards. He walks around the coffee table, as one does when they are not Sherlock Holmes, and sits on the couch next to Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at the single mug in front of them pointedly.

"You didn't ask for tea." He shrugs his shoulders.

Sherlock brings up what is, indeed, a water pistol, and gives John a good long squirt that zigzags all over his face.

John's nose wrinkles, and he shakes his head in a pathetic half-thought-out effort to free himself of the water droplets. He can feel them trailing down his chest now, and his hands drift towards his towel. He stops though, fingers brushing the corner, and realizes that it is the only thing protecting his modesty.

He almost snorts at that part - his modesty. Like that actually exists with Sherlock around.

Regardless, he glances up at Sherlock, who is lying back on the couch, head pillowed on the armrest, and watching him, the water pistol brushing the floor as it hangs from his limp hand.

"Where'd you get that from?" asks John, still sitting there with water dripping down his chest.

"I'm arming myself."

Well, not really an answer, but at least it's a verbal reply.

"Against?"

"Idiots."

John's eyes drift up to the ceiling of their own accord. He contemplates a few discolorations. The one in the far corner is due to some kind of chemical. The one directly above the table in front of them, that was definitely a take-out dinner. A few splatters of blood decorate the seam where wall meets ceiling on the left of them, and a dark purple splodge by the light fixture happened when Sherlock wasn't even home.

John and Greg only talk about that one when they are very, very drunk.

Sherlock's bare feet shove and burrow themselves under his thighs and John's hands fly up reflexively (thank god) to clamp the towel against him as it is almost tugged out of place by Sherlock's movements.

John sits there for another moment, and then stands up abruptly, hand still steadfast in its desperate cling on the pathetic piece of fabric he deemed safe to wear.

In under ten minutes he has been reminded that safety is an illusion when in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

He is chased into his room by the cold reality of a water pistol spraying all over his back.

* * *

**Constructive criticism will be welcomed with open arms.**


	6. Chapter 6

**This one's a bit longer than the others. **

* * *

"John." Sherlock is sitting crosslegged on the floor, flipping through a magazine. John is absently flicking through the TV channels, hoping for something to snag his interest.

He hums in response.

"John," Sherlock says again, eyes still on the magazine.

"Yes, Sherlock?" John drags his eyes away from the fluttering images, and takes a proper look at Sherlock's magazine. "Why are you reading an interior design magazine?" He shifts forward to lean his elbows on his knees, to get a better look at it over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Is that what it is?" says Sherlock, as if tips for reupholstering, and finding the perfect theme for your child's room weren't splashed across the glossy pages.

"Where'd you get it?"

"It was just lying around. One of your old… girlfriends must have left it here." He pauses, eyes passing over one particular child's room again.

"Why did you say it like that?" John's eyebrows crease, eyes centreing on Sherlock's face.

"Say what like what?" Sherlock draws a finger over the orange walls, over the double bed.

"Say 'girlfriend' like that. Do you mean Susie? She read a lot of those things." He gestures at the magazine as if it is a foreign concept.

"I think you'll find that 'girlfriend' is rather subjective. I never know what to call them. How long do they have to last to be a girlfriend? Days? Weeks? Hours? What do you think of this?" He points at a pile of pillows in the orange child's room.

"Susie and I dated for about a month I think. And the pillows are nice, I guess. What kind of feedback are you expecting?" He leans further over Sherlock's shoulder to trace over the them.

"For my room. We sit on the floor in there quite often."

"Wouldn't they get in the way of your experiments?"

"No, I'd imagine they'd be quite handy. The floor is rather hard, you know."

John smiles, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Yeah, good idea. Where exactly are you getting these pillows from? You can't have the ones from my bed, but I'll help you pillage Greg's."

"No, they wouldn't be the proper dimensions." Sherlock frowns at the picture.

John, long ago having accepted Sherlock's seemingly random need to have certain things perfect, reaches for the remote to switch off the TV.

"So, you're going pillow shopping, then?"

"I'll have to," says Sherlock, taking a last look at the picture, and then thumbing the magazine closed and dropping it beside him. "Coming?"

John looks around the apartment, the TV, the blank of the building that faces them through their window. "Yeah, sure. I guess I am."

Sherlock detests public transport, but even he can't afford to get around London in the back of a taxi while relying only on his monthly allowance afforded by his older brother. They file onto the bus, where they find two seats relatively clear of used tissues. Sherlock looks between John and a chewing gum stain on the fabric pointedly.

"Get over yourself," says John. He sits on the chewing gum stain.

Sherlock sidles in beside him.

John trails behind Sherlock, eyes washing over the pillow cases hanging on racks along the walls of the huge warehouse.

"Sherlock, what is this place?" asks John, trailing his fingers over a large, green, fuzzy one that reminds him unpleasantly, and vaguely hysterically of a skinned Oscar-the-Grouch.

"One of several buildings that house various discontinued furniture lines at a discount." Sherlock pulls a trolley along behind him lazily with two fingers, as he tugs at the corners of random pillowcases as if judging their span with his eyes.

"Wow," says John, unaware that such things existed.

Something catches Sherlock's eye a few rows down, and he makes his way towards it quickly, leaving John to lean carefully on the trolley. He's only seen one other person in this place, besides the cashier scrolling down his phone, the deep-burgundy uniform hanging off his hairy arms. The woman, with her hair frizzing out of the complicated braid that she had shoved it into, had smiled at him as she pushed her trolley past, the silver of a few teeth glinting in the low, fluorescent lighting.

John had smiled back, eyes averting quickly back to his still-empty trolley, as he didn't want to stare at the contents of hers, full of twenty or so violently purple pillow cases stacked haphazardly within the metal confines.

Sherlock appears at the corner of his vision, and deposits a shaggy white pillowcase, square with sides about as long as one of John's arms. John gives it an appraising look, and then cocks his head as he looks at Sherlock, eyebrows raising in exaggerated appreciation.

"Shut up," says Sherlock, dumping a rather more luxurious looking velvety-black one that almost looks purple in places when it catches the light.

"I'm guessing the white one is mine, then?" he says, leaning on the cart as he starts pushing it slowly forward.

"We're not squabbling siblings, we don't have to write our names on the labels." He scans the isles as they pass by. "In any case, we need at least five more."

John huffs out a little sigh, more teasing than anything else, and begins to take a proper interest in the proceedings.

Sherlock flits around, back and forth, running fabrics between his fingertips, and tweaking corners of pillowcases to… judge their potential fit? John has no clue.

Instead, he does some looking of his own, occasionally pointing out things he think would look good on Sherlock's bedroom floor.

For example, that neon yellow one with the pink stripes. Yummy. Or the one with the gorgeous pleather fringe and silver stitching that says 'Sweet Home Alabama'. Fab.

What would look best of all on Sherlock's floor though, are John's clothes. And John did not just think that. Nor did he say that last one out loud.

Can someone still be drunk three days later? John tells himself that he is a student of medicine, and that is a physical impossibility.

He keeps pushing the cart.

Sherlock has swanned off somewhere, leaving John to contemplate a sinkhole-brown felt pillowcase, that has on it a cartoon frog sitting on a pink, heart shaped lillypad, surrounded by the words 'You make my heart leap!'. He narrows his eyes at it. Considers it.

He tries to imagine holding hands with Sherlock on a balcony at sunset, both of them gripping champagne flutes and staring into each others eyes. Its about the most sickeningly romantic image he can conjure up. Its not doing much for him. He looks at the frog for guidance. The frog is clearly judging him.

No, he decides. He doesn't have feelings for Sherlock.

And then there he is, the man himself, a baby blue pillow with a white spiral disappearing into the centre, draped over one arm. That lands in the pile in the bottom of the cart.

Sherlock looks up to see what John is examining, and his forehead creases.

John lets a sloppy grin pick up at the corners of his mouth, "You make my heart leap," he says, a hand over his heart in a fit of feigned uncontrollable romantic urges. He stretches the pillowcase out so Sherlock can receive the full effect. John does not actually look at the pillowcase, in case the frog is still judging him.

Sherlock stares, eyebrows seemingly frozen, drawn together.

John lets the pillow go after a long moment, deciding to put Sherlock out of his misery. "I'm joking" he says, "my one and only true love will forever be-"

His eyes catch on it as he speaks, and he steps around the cart in a few quick strides, reaching out for it, "that pillow."

It is garishly, violently, blindingly orange and the color is only magnified by the turquoise, secret-magic-island-water blue hexagons that dot it. What really kills it though, is the thick-threaded, haphazard stitching of the looping words, 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY' all in white across the face of it.

"No," says Sherlock immediately, and pushes the cart towards, and past John.

"Sherlock, look at it," says John, pulling the pillow off its hanger, and jogs to where Sherlock has now slowed his pace. He holds it up like some sort of desperate salesman. "Just- please. Can we take it. I'll pay for it myself."

"John, it says Happy Birthday on it." Sherlock quickens his pace and studiously look straight ahead.

"It will be relevant three times a year. It can be our house birthday pillow. We can even use it for relatives as well. That's eleven people if we're counting nuclear family." John has worked up to a light jog by now, a hopeful smile stuck on his face.

"John, shut up." says Sherlock, putting one foot on the cart, and propelling himself forward with the other. He seems almost surprised that this has worked, about as surprised as John is that the universe allowed that to happen at all.

But it did, and it worked, and John's legs, no matter how much he would like them to be longer, are still rather short and he has trouble keeping up with Sherlock's glides down the aisle.

Somehow the figure of Sherlock speeding along on a trolley is still vaguely majestic, and John has to stop, too caught up in his own laughter. He presses the pillow to his stomach, doubling over, and Sherlock recognising that there is no longer anyone in pursuit of him, slows down and looks around for John. John manages to laugh even harder at his confused look, and Sherlock's face twists to an almost equal mixture of mortified, and hysterical.

"Oh, god," John gasps, out, one hand on his knee so he doesn't collapse to the floor. Sherlock's expression twitches.

John catches his breath after a few moments, panting and grinning at Sherlock, still doubled over. He thrusts out pillowcase, holding it out for Sherlock to take.

Sherlock, long-suffering and regal, strides over and snatches it out of John's hand, and walks back over to put it in the cart. He turns to watch John pull himself together and stumble over.

When John glances at him out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock is smiling.

* * *

**John gets a little introspective here. All credits for the happy birthday pillow design go to ArthurDent2. **

**Also, ugh back to school. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. **


End file.
